


Incandescent

by MerryOrchard



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After Eurus shoots John, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Rosie Detective, Sweet, after The Hug, after season 4, coming to terms, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 14:04:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9444578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryOrchard/pseuds/MerryOrchard
Summary: If Eurus can manipulate and compromise someone in five minutes, what could she have done to John, given hours of texting and ten minutes short of two counseling sessions?  Eurus asks questions. John, slowly, over time, finds answers.Missing scenes: The Lying Detective: After the hug, and after the shot. The Final Problem: the days and months after John is pulled from the well.A small case in the latter part. Gentle affection that increases as John processes the situation, as the relationship develops. Sherlock is patient. Nothing overly graphic, but it still warrants an Adult rating (perhaps.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posting on AO3. It’s a story I couldn’t get out of my head. I took liberties with the events and timing of John’s abruptly ended counseling session. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Transcript excerpts from http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/ Thank you, Ariane!
> 
> edited 1/24/17, fixed small errors

_Continuing on with the hug in The Lying Detective_

_SHERLOCK (softly): It’s okay._

_JOHN (tearfully): It’s not okay._

_SHERLOCK (softly): No._

_SHERLOCK (softly): But it is what it is._

Gods it felt good to cry, to finally let loose. And John completely let go. He gibbered and shook and Sherlock, hyper, easily bored Sherlock stood still for a very long time. When John finally started to settle down, he realized that Sherlock was swaying side to side, quietly humming the John song, and rubbing light circles on the nape of his neck. John wept for a few more minutes then considered attempting a sniffle. No, that won’t work, he thought, it would flood his brain. Instead, he pulled his head back, and seeing the state of Sherlock’s shirt and dressing gown, groaned, “Look at that mess.”

“John, it’s ok. It’s a lost cause, and an easy sacrifice. I’ll pop them in Mrs. Hudson’s laundry. I apologize. I don’t have any tissue or toilet paper, or paper towels…”

“Yes, and the proper solution for this mess is to dip my head in a sink,” John smiled.

Sherlock didn’t let go. “Just use my dressing gown.  Go on, then I’ll take it off. Least I can do for someone who rescued me right from the very clutches of a serial killer.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

John wiped, and blew, still in the cradle of Sherlock’s arms. Mary had been gone for what seemed ages, and, well, being in someone’s arms again, even Sherlock’s, well, he was just going to stay for a bit longer. And Sherlock wasn’t letting go, so. It was what it was.

What were they saying? Oh, yes. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, about that. Um. The serial killer, a-hem.  It was, I mean I was, it was unforgivable of me to beat you like I did, I mean, spraining your wrist was pretty much obligatory, given the situation.  I’m not sorry about that, but everything else, it was, hmm, dreadful. Just wrong. I am sorry. I completely lost control and that was unacceptable.  I’ve been failing a lot lately.”

Sherlock shook him ever so gently and rested his cheek on the top of John’s head. “You didn’t break my nose or loosen any teeth. Apology not needed, but fully accepted.” Sherlock pulled his head back, looked John in the eyes and smiled his electric, genuine smile. “You did crack two ribs.  I could have done without the kicks, though it did make it easier to let Smith get on with his smothering. Took some of the fight out of me. So perhaps, for the sake of the case, I owe you some thanks.”

John smiled weakly back at Sherlock, returning his direct gaze, shook his head and said, “Right.”  Suddenly the intimacy was too much. John shifted, Sherlock let go and they both stepped back quickly.

“Cake!” said John, as a distraction.

“What?” asked Sherlock, shrugging off his robe and balling it up.

“It’s your birthday. You need cake. I’ll go stick my head in the sink. Surely you have towels?”

“Well, not clean ones, really.”

“I’ll make do. Back in a bit.” Sherlock was blowing his nose into the dressing gown as John shut to bathroom door.

******

Continuing from the counseling session where Eurus confesses, or was she bragging?

_EURUS: Huh. It’s making a funny face._

_(She raises her gun and points it at him.)_

_EURUS: I think I’ll put a hole in it._

_(John raises his hands again, his eyes wide._

_Eurus pulls the trigger._

John rocked back a bit from the impact. Eurus laughed, loudly. John thought, “This doesn’t hurt as much as my shoulder did.” For another fraction of a second thought, “because I’m in shock,” then he thought of Rosie and couldn’t breathe. “Lung, hit in the lung,” John thought, hyperventilating until the moment the darkness took him.

He woke, handcuffed by one hand to a very sturdy towel rack in a large bathroom. He could reach the sink, so he rinsed his face and drank some water from his hand. More alert, he took stock of the situation. No phone. He couldn’t reach the toilet. On the sink sat a toothbrush, toothpaste, a bar of soap, and a deodorant. His brands, all his brands, right down to his preferred scent or flavor. Did that bode well, or ill? He inhaled a ragged breath and stared at himself in the mirror. Jesus. Sherlock had a sister. He had spent hours and hours flirting by text with Sherlock’s sister. And Faith Smith’s visit had been real, well, real enough. She had tricked him and tricked him and tricked Sherlock too.  Sherlock’s sister! Made Mycroft seem like a sweet pussy-cat. They had been set up. Sherlock’s sister set them up, was still setting them up. John tugged at the handcuff, looked at the deodorant. “Not dead, not dead yet. I’ll take that for good.  Why does this always happen to ME!”

Eurus, now standing in the doorway, laughed. John spun around to face her.

“Not feeling as hopeless as on our first meeting. Now you want to live. That’s very good. Useful.”  She rubbed her hands together. “It was a fast acting sedative, really just enough time for me to drag you in here and pack my bags. We’ve still got 20 minutes left of our counseling session.”

John snorted. “Not interested any more. I’m finding a new counselor. You’re rubbish.”

Eurus rolled her eyes.

John tried to cross his arms, quite unsuccessfully. “No, really, you can keep talking, I can’t stop you, but don’t expect me to participate.”

“Fair enough,” the chameleon leaned against the door jamb, quite out of reach. “I will ask questions. She still had one brown eye and one blue.

John turned away from her.

She snorted.

“First question: You seemed very smitten with me when texting. Very interested.  Now that your wife is gone, no more moral dilemmas regarding the issue, would you like to take our relationship further? I can put the red wig back on.”

John stood stock still. When he didn’t pick up Rosie, Molly would call Sherlock. Sherlock would figure it out. That was four or five hours out, but he could wait, after all, he had deodorant.

“Hmmm. I’ll take your lack of response as a ‘No’. Next question: What was it that you liked about our conversations, John, what turned you on, what hooked you so much, that you kept texting me, despite clearly and deeply loving your wife?”

No matter how long the wait, I’ll be smelling fresh, thought John.

There was a very long pause. “Oh, no answer? You’re no fun. I’ll propose an answer.  Could it be that you loved the Holmes-ness of me?  How much did I feel like Sherlock to you?  I tried to be like him. I’ve read all your blogs, and his. You clearly admire and love each other. The truth glows from between every line of your writing. Did our texting felt exciting but also comforting, like going home to 221B?”   

“Oh, if only Sherlock had been born a girl, or you had. It’s so very tragic.”

It’s been a very stressful day. I’ll wash up as soon as she leaves, thought John. Kind of her to consider my hygienic needs.  

“How much do you think Sherlock loves Molly?  I suspect he does. If it’s true, isn’t it sad?  Molly loves Sherlock and Sherlock loves Molly, but not in _that_ way. Don’t you think Sherlock should just Try? Give Molly a kiss, give her a hug, slumber in a bed together. Something might stir in Sherlock. He kissed Janine. He may have done the nasty with Adler. I’m sure the woman offered.”

“Ooh, he’s not talking, but he’s communicating. Look at that fist clench. How would you feel if Sherlock tried with Molly and succeeded? Or are you responding to what I said about Irene? Jealous?

Silence rang for several more minutes. It was getting really, really hard to keep thinking about deodorant.

“Well, we have 10 more minutes, but I’m about done. One last question. Do you think it is possible that some people are so incandescent, so incredible, so charismatic, that they transcend their gender?   Do not forget that a truly amazing and unique person loves you John. Loves you enough to risk life and limb for you. Repeatedly. Relax, John. Open your eyes and Observe yourself. All those women, and not one was right.”

“There was Mary,” John shouted, despite himself.

“Oh, I’m about to leave and he starts talking. Ah, but you initially committed to her in the absence of Sherlock. If Sherlock had been present, would she have stuck, or would you have driven her away too?”

John refused to move a single muscle. The sedative had left a nasty taste in his mouth, he thought.  Glad there was minty fresh toothpaste on the sink. And a toothbrush, still in it’s sealed carton.

“Well, said what I wanted to say. I bought a nail gun. I love nail guns. Time to play with it. So many interesting possibilities.”

John turned around. Stupid to keep your back to a nail gun.

Euros set a key on the floor near the door, stepped out, then shifted a sheet of plywood across the opening. In 20 seconds 30 nails were in and she was gone.

John pulled the towel off the rack with his free hand, and attempted to retrieve the key with the towel. He snagged it on the 4th try. Not nearly soon enough to prevent the nailing, but, as he hoped, it fit the cuffs.

“Still alive. Freaked out, but still alive.” He used the toilet, brushed, drank a cup of water and, since it was there, washed under his arms and applied deodorant. Then he sat down to wait. Sherlock would figure it out. He could go for days without food, really, if necessary. Just wait, and be glad you’re not dead, John thought. And DON’T THINK. He let unpleasant nail gun possibilities crowd out other, more troubling thoughts. Thirty minutes later, after all the gruesome nail gun ideas he had come up with, he had to admit time spent with Sherlock and his cases had definitely twisted him.

Sherlock arrived with Scotland Yard in tow about forty minutes later, long before Molly would have missed John.

When no one answered the doorbell, they broke down the door. John started shouting and soon Sherlock was outside alternating between asking him if he was really alright (repeatedly), and explaining how he found the note and the message and how he knew where to look for John. “I texted you about the note and when you didn’t respond I called your office and they said you were late from lunch, so I looked up your therapist on Facebook and found she didn’t look remotely like the woman I met in this office.”

“Oh, sorry, hang on, Sherlock,” John interrupted, “Greg, um, someone needs to look in the airing cupboard, I think you’ll find the real therapist there.”  He had forgotten that bit. Sherlock’s sister was probably a murderer. “In a sack” didn’t sound as nice as “locked in a bathroom with toothpaste and deodorant.”

The Yard pried off the plywood and Sherlock, tall in his magnificent coat, with his perfectly tousled hair and a panicked face, burst into the small room. His face switched to delight when he saw John safe, gasping, “You are OK!”

“Yes, you wonderful git. I told you I was ok through the plywood. At least seven times. Good to see you, too.”

Sherlock started the hug. John embraced it. Or had John initiated? John leaned in and went with it, and Sherlock down-right clung to John.

In front of all of Scotland Yard. It was what it was.

John waited ‘til they were back in 221B and Rosie was happily playing, to tell Sherlock about his sister. He was incredulous, but soon started making deductions. They were so busy together, making Mycroft plans and preparations, that John had little time to think of other things.  He was very much looking forward to making Mycroft wet himself.

******

After the main events of the Final Problem.

“Are you going to talk to Molly?”  

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Start with the facts. She was going to die. Well, the balance of probability was that she was going to die…”

“But I told her I loved her.”

“Yes, yes you did. And it sounded very, very sincere to me.” John cleared his throat. That was quite a tantrum you threw, after.”  John licked his lips. “Do you love her?”

“Yes, John, of course I love her. She’s very bright, her kindness glows like a beacon. Even when she’s slapping my face it’s out of love and compassion. I spent several days in her apartment after, well, before I left to hunt down Moriarty’s network. She is a wonderful person. She puts up with me. But.”

“But, what? Maybe you could give a relationship with her a try? You know, if you love her.”

“John, women are not my area. You know this. I wouldn’t be able to give her all that she needs in a relationship. Janine was very dissatisfied.”

“But maybe if you kissed her, well, something might, er, stir?” John pointedly looked Sherlock in the face. He did not look anywhere else. No. “You kissed Janine.”

“And it was not good.”

“But you didn’t love Janine - that was for a case. You love Molly.”

“And if I were to try and fail, what would that do to her? It would be much, much worse than what happened during Sherrinford. There would be no more than a 10 % chance, that something would _stir._ ” Sherlock uttered the word stir with contempt.

John nodded his head.

Sherlock tipped his head, thinking. “18%.”

John raised an eyebrow, and felt strangely, slightly hurt by the increased odds.

Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his face. “John, how I feel about Molly makes me understand how you may feel about me.”

“OH?” asked John, “What’s this?” He stepped back two steps.

“Well, you have told me you love me. That means a great deal to me. But, I understand that while you love me, you don’t love me, um, that way, and I assure you, I’m perfectly ok with that.  While I consider you family, truly, I.  I have my work. It’s all ok. I am very grateful for the time we spend together and enjoy it immensely. You, and Rosie, are highly valued, irreplaceable, integral parts of my life, and I am so glad. It is enough.”

They stood staring at each other for a long time.

“Yes, I do love you, Sherlock. Still, very much. You’re a vital part of my life too. And Rosie’s.”

Sherlock nodded his head once and left to find Molly.

The next day, John still couldn’t leave it alone.

“But, um, you could have more, the full package, perhaps, with Molly. You should talk to her, Sherlock. You could explain and offer to try more. It might be worth the risk. Maybe she should be part of making the decision about taking the risk, not just you. Because you LOVE her Sherlock.”

“The chance is only 18%. If it were 50%, maybe. Women are not, uh. Molly is a woman, John. No.”

“You were with the Woman, for several days, in Iraq.  Did anything happen then? Were there any, uh, romantic feelings? You’ve been texting her. She’s a woman.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, waved his hands, and said, “I know she’s a woman, I have eyes.” He sighed. “Yes, I’ll admit. Something _stirred_ , but two things, John: she’s not a woman, she’s The Woman. She transcends her gender, she’s so…” and Sherlock faded off for a moment. Coming back to himself with a sharp shake of his head, he continued, “and secondly, for either woman, even if, or though, something _stirred,_ if I were to start a relationship with either of them, they’d expect me to spend lots of time with them, and, frankly, I’d rather spend my time with you.”

***

There were hugs now and then, and life settled down into a chaotic routine. John was happy, many days, broken on others.  Rosie was a delight. Sherlock was magnificently Sherlock-ish, except with Rosie. With Rosie, he was just plain magnificent. Rosie adored Sherlock. On John’s morose days, Sherlock was even better with Rosie.

And there were many fewer dreadful experiments. John wasn’t sure if that was for Rosie’s benefit and safety, or because Rosie kept Sherlock occupied between cases.

On some nights, there were terrible dreams. Wonderful dreams that went bad. He’d be having fun with Mary, he’d be so joyously happy, and then she’d get shot, and all the hurt rushed back.  Or someone would shoot him. And sometimes he’d be with both Mary and Sherlock and everything would be just heart wrenchingly perfect, and Mary would get shot. Or it was Sherlock who died, and that felt just as bad.

Sometimes the dreams were just Sherlock. He’d break into that godforsaken hospital room and it would be too late. Too late, and Smith would laugh as John’s world collapsed.  Finally, in one dream, John got there in time, Smith was hauled out, and John began examining Sherlock’s neck. The structure seemed fine, he could tell right away, but he kept touching that long, graceful neck, caressing it.

Sherlock sniped, “John, the man was suffocating me, not strangling me.”

John said, “Hush you, I need to be sure you’re alive. I need you to be alive,”  then he leaned in, placed his mouth against that neck, inhaled the scent and nibbled on that neck. He snapped awake.

“Good grief,” he shook his head and went back to sleep.

The season changed. Rosie was walking the stiff kneed toddler walk. Sherlock kept a very clean flat. The dreams continued.

It was about 3 a.m. as John staggered down the stairs. He had to say what he had to say while he was still groggy with sleep, half in the dream world, or it wouldn’t come out. This one had been one heck of a dream. He had been nuzzling. Nuzzling Sherlock’s…   

Sherlock was up and about. Pacing, processing a case’s information.

“Sherlock. I think I’m at 50 %.” He took a deep, deep breath and committed. “With. With you. For you.”

“Mm hmmm”.

“Sherlock, did you hear me?”

“What? Oh.  Oh!”

Sherlock stopped pacing. “Oh.” He took a step back and looked intensely at John. Deducing.

John looked away, not able to watch Sherlock’s thinking, and wondering if he was wrong to have said anything. “Yes. I thought we should decide together,” he told the wall. “I mean, it’s just 50% at this point. I’ve been having dreams, dreams about you, and in the dreams, um, it’s over 50%, well over 50%, any more. But then dreams are not reality, nor are the occasional fantasies. I had a dream I was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, once, and really believed it. And while it is arousing to,” John grimaced and forced it out, to make his point clear, ”fantasize about spankings, I’ve tried it and in real life, it just hurt.”

Sherlock walked around John to stand between John and the wall he was staring at, and quietly said, “I’d have been willing to take the risk at 18%. If it didn’t work, I could delete it, so, um, yes, 50 % is good.”

John rubbed his eyes, “Ok, um, good. Right now, I really need to get back to sleep. I work tomorrow, and, uh. Well, we probably ought to start with things, activities that I, that are, that I am sure are 100%.  To start.”

Sherlock nodded, didn’t move. Looked at John. God, those blue eyes. And that hopeful, cautious face.

John cleared his throat. “So, I know I would be ok with you, when you happen to sleep, if you would sleep next to me. With me.”

Sherlock stepped forward, then stepped back, uncertain how to proceed, and leaned against the wall. “That would be good start.”

“I mean SLEEP, when I say sleep. Not.”

“I understand.”

“Uh, my bed is a mess and too small, and Rosie.”

“Please John, settle into my bed. I’ll join you in bit. It’s time Rosie had her own room, maybe?”

John nodded and shuffled through the kitchen to the back room. To the giant bed in the cave-like darkness. The Sherlock bed. He didn’t think he would fall back asleep. Through the closed door, he heard what may have been a hissed, “YES”, and what was surely the sound of Sherlock’s feet hitting the floor after a hop of joy.  

****

Weeks later, after much slumbering together, and a few more hugs.

****

John was with Mary, they were giggling. He was on top, and it felt sooo good. He sank into the familiar rhythm. She was. He was. They were together. Rosie cried out and the sound pulled him out of the dream. He gasped, moaned.

“It’s 6:15 John, she’s playing in her room - it’s ok.”

He was still mostly asleep, his heart breaking, his need standing up, rampant.

“John, come here. It’s ok.” Sherlock snaked an arm under John’s neck and slid closer.

That was all it took, in the twilight of his consciousness. John moved on top of Sherlock and, pants rubbing against pants, finished his dream.

He dozed for a bit afterwards and woke with his head on Sherlock’s chest and remembered. “Oh, God, I was an arse. I’m sorry Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s fingers were threaded in the hair at the nape of John’s neck. “It’s ok, John.” Sherlock stroked his head. “I like your hair longer. I like playing with your hair.”

He sat up, straddling Sherlock and leaned left to climb off. Sherlock put his hands on John’s thighs and said, “Please, stay a bit longer.”

John sighed and stayed. The silence was uncomfortable. John looked around, trying to find something, anything to say. A half empty bottle of lube lay on the sheets. Oh, Christ, what had he done in his half-sleep? To Sherlock. No. He was sure that that didn’t happen. They were both still wearing pants. John pointed. “Sherlock, what is that?”

“John, don’t be thick. It is a bottle of lube. I’m sure you’ve seen one before.”

“Yes, Sherlock. You’re right. But normally, _that_ bottle of lube is in your pillowcase, under your pillow.”

“Ahhh.” Sherlock turned red.

“Oh!” John took Sherlock’s right hand, sniffed, then, touched the palm with the tip of his tongue. The taste confirmed his suspicions. He closed his eyes, opened them and saw that Sherlock was looking at the wall. “Do you, when I am dreaming about um, sex, do you, um.”

Sherlock tipped his head back and shifted his gaze to the wall behind the bed. “You have a lot of those dreams, John. I, yes,” Sherlock sighed. “I do. While I watch you, when you’re dreaming that you’re.” He paused, agonized by the confession. “You make quiet, wonderful noises.”

John gazed at Sherlock’s long, exposed, lovely neck. He whispered, “Today, this morning, earlier, did you finish, or did I interrupt you?”

Sherlock looked at John. “It doesn’t matter. I hope it’s ok. Is it ok, John?”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah, it’s ok.” Then he whispered, “I think you should finish.”

Sherlock looked terrified. “Now? While you watch?” his voice cracked on the words, but John could feel him thicken beneath him.

“Yes. Rosie’s good about not coming out of her room until the clock says 7, and Sherlock, you just said you watch me. It’s only fair. And I was an arse. I took advantage of you and I’d like to, well. You should finish. It’s only fair.” John slid down and shifted his knees to be in between Sherlock’s legs instead of straddling them.  Sherlock spread his legs, didn’t resist.

“I can never tell, John, who you are with when you’re dreaming those dreams. Who were you with this morning.”

John didn’t answer his question. “Do you know you say my name a lot, much more than necessary.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, accepting John’s response. “Ok. Yes. I say your name because I can. I love to say your name. You say my name a lot too.” This time the silence wasn’t awkward. It lingered, strangely comfortable. Remarkably comfortable. For John. Sherlock, however was trembling.

“It would be easier with your pants off.” John tentatively hooked his fingers in Sherlock’s waist band.

Sherlock lifted his hips up slightly in acceptance, and reached for the bottle of lube.

John gazed at his partner’s face, his vulnerable face. “Sherlock, yesterday’s dream was all you. All you." He placed his hands, palms down, where thighs met groin and asked, “Is this all ok?”

Sherlock locked eyes with him, applied fresh lube and began to finish.

Afterward, Sherlock wept and John wiped the tears off his cheeks.

***

Rosie loved to run. The stiff-legged toddler run was transitioning to what might one day be a gazelle’s grace. The three of them were at a park. It was cold and windy and they had the place to themselves. Rosie didn’t quite understand tag, nor hide and seek, and they were playing a confusing but delightful combination of the two that Rosie had concocted. It involved a lot of running, ducking in, out and around the wooden castle styled playground equipment, chasing, grabbing hold of each other and shouting, “Boo, boo, I got you!”   Pure joy.

They had just taken Rosie on a case. John was still gob-smacked over the events. Rosie proved that she was amazing.

John had been outraged at noon when Sherlock informed him they’d be taking Rosie on a case. Sherlock pointed out that there would be at least 20 officers there. It would be perfectly safe.

Sherlock then explained that he and Rosie had a game. Before nap on John’s office days, Rosie would study the living room or the kitchen. During nap, Sherlock would turn one thing upside down, or otherwise alter it, and after nap, Rosie would seek out the change. “First few days, I turned furniture upside down, and Rosie would collapse in giggles when she came down stairs and saw. But now, John, she is amazing. Utterly amazing. SHE found your missing pen. Thought it was my objective. Remember how distressed you were about that missing pen?”  

Rosie was listening, and when Sherlock finished talking and while John was still dumbstruck by the news of this game that had clearly been going on for months and that he knew nothing about, she solemnly intoned, “Peopwe Wook. Detectives Obsewve.”

“A toddler is missing, John. Her observation skills are remarkable, and she’s got a toddler mind-set. She’ll see things even I won’t notice.”  

John threw up his hands. “Ok, you win. You always win.”

Donovan was outraged by Rosie’s arrival. Sherlock growled, “This is clearly a missing child case, not a _stolen_ child case. Rosie will add to the investigation.”  Greg shrugged off Donovan’s death stare, muttering, “I’ve always let him do whatever he wants, and it always works. Go ahead.” Then, changing his tone, he squatted down in front of Rosie, “Hey sweetie, thanks for helping. When we go in the house, try not to touch anything. If you need to look under or into something, point and one of our helpers will move it. Ok?”

“Is she two yet?” growled Donovan under her breath to Greg. “What can she possibly do?”

Greg said, “Hush!” and nodded toward Rosie indicating the child was still close enough to hear her. “Molly told me she turned two last week, but has been talking non-stop for about four months. Dunno.” He smiled at John. “Look at how John has raised Sherlock, and, honestly how Sherlock has taken care of John. Gotta be some amazing parenting skills in there, somewhere,” Greg mused, then lead them toward the home.

As John picked up Rosie and they followed Greg, Sherlock explained, “Marcus is a friend of Rosie. She’s been to his house repeatedly.

“What? How? On playdates? Do you take her on play dates?” John asked, “Really?”

“Twice a week. She tells you about Amy and Marcus and Nick frequently. Where do you think?”

“You read to her all the time. I read to her all the time. Mrs. Hudson reads to her all the time. And they’re all different books! ‘No Daddy, that’s a Mrs. Hudson book. Let’s read one of yours.’ She won’t let me read her your books either! I thought they were from your books or Mrs. Hudson’s.”

“I don’t read her fiction. And John, you needn’t to shout.”

Rosie patted John’s cheek. “Daddy doesn’t wead Papa’s books wight.”

John huffed. “If you told me she knew the child, I wouldn’t have argued about her coming today.”  John shifted Rosie to his other hip.

“I wanted you to agree to Rosie helping because she’s very capable, not because she’s Marcus’ friend.”

While Greg was bullying forensics into letting the 221B team into the house, and then explaining to the parents, John poked Sherlock. “What do the other mothers think of you? The playgroup mothers?”

“ _Other_ mothers John? I’ll have to ponder that word choice. Mostly, I keep my mouth shut. For Rosie’s sake.”

John guffawed. “For Rosie’s sake. It never fails to amaze me what things you can accomplish. And keeping your mouth shut, that is an accomplishment.”

In the home, Sherlock knelt in front of Rosie, having summarily dismissed all of Greg’s ‘helpers’, but letting the parents, John and Greg stay. “Rosie, I think Marcus is playing hide and seek. His mommy wants to find him.” Rosie warily looked over at Marcus’s dad and reached for John’s hand. “Yes, Rosie, Marcus’ daddy wants to find him also.”

John thought Marcus’ dad looked scary, too, of course, his son had been missing for 12 hours now, and the man was insane with fear. He gently squeezed his daughter’s hands and whispered, “Daddy’s here.”

Sherlock continued.  “I’d like you to play our game, our observation game, but in a different way.”

Rosie nodded.

“When we play, you look for something that has moved or changed. Today, here, look for something that is missing, or something that is new. Got it?”

Rosie nodded, and, sucking her thumb, grasping her floppy moo-moose in thumby’s hand, started wandering, dragging John along after her.

John looked over his shoulder to Sherlock, his face communicating, “I agree she is the brightest child on the planet, but she’s just two. Have you started her in the most likely place? How long will her attention span last?”

Sherlock understood and said, “Of course, and long enough.”

Rosie pointed to an object now and then. Marcus’ mom, who was a fine looking woman with jet black, messy, unkempt hair, would nod and say, yes that’s new, or, yes honey, that looks new.  Usually it’s upstairs. Rosie indicated a few missing items, and if she didn’t know the word, pointed to a bare spot and a parent would say something like, “Oh yes, the dog broke the letter holder, knocked it off the desk. We threw it out.”  

“The pottie box,” Rosie said, when she peeked into the powder room off the hall.

“Yes!” said Marcus’ mom, “Dave, did you move Marcus’s bathroom stool?” Dave shook his head.

They had taken three steps into the kitchen when Rosie pointed at five hooks on the wall, hooks filled with keys. “The fine-y thing with the caw toy.”

The parents stood stock still for a moment. “Where’s the key to the kit car garage?” the father cried.

The mother was already digging through her purse, shouting, “I have the other key!”

“He might be with the kit car,” the father explained. “The key ring has a little blue car hanging on it. It’s not on its hook. Oh. Oh! Thank you. How did he reach the key, how did he know to? Why did he?” the man faded off.

“The pottie box!” said Rosie.

Sherlock was smiling like the Cheshire Cat.  John whisked Rosie up into his arms and kissed her. “You’re brilliant!”

Rosie kissed her Daddy and said, “No cewebewating untiew the case is cewosed.”

John matched Rosie’s solemnity, “You’re right honey. Of course. No celebrating until we find Marcus.”  He kissed Rosie again, moved much closer to Sherlock and gave him a swift peck on the lips. Yes. In front of Greg. Rosie leaned over and added her kiss to her very proud, and very surprised Papa.  John gazed at the emotions fighting for dominance on Papa’s face.

They ran with the parents four blocks to a small shared storage unit, Rosie giggling, riding piggy-backed on John.  

The little step-stool sat outside the sturdy man-door of one of the units. “There’s been a very strong north wind all day,” said Sherlock. “Might have helped him get the door open when it would be too heavy otherwise?”

Turns out that the inside handle was far too stiff for greasy little hands to turn. Marcus had been busy playing mechanic before deciding to go back home and finding he couldn’t get out the door.  He was asleep in the back seat of the kit car. He started crying when he woke, reaching for his parents.

“Marcus does love cars, doesn’t he, Rosie. We can celebrate now, I think.” Sherlock pulled Rosie off John’s back, set her on the sidewalk and said, “Ready?”

Rosie shouted, “Case Cewosed! 1,2,3 JUMP,” And all three in the family did.

****

It had been a great, great day. Rosie was brilliant. Sherlock was brilliant. John. Was. Happy.  The euphoria of a meaningful case closed, the satisfying exhaustion of running and playing silly games with his family in the park, and a good hearty meal combined to make John feel marvelous.

When they entered 221B, John said, “Rosie, knock on Mrs. Hudson’s door and if she’s home, tell her about your first case.”  

Rosie cheered and skipped down the hall.

“Tea?” asked John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, following John up the stairs.

John put the kettle on then, sighing a happy sigh, started picking toys up from the floor.  Sherlock came back from hanging up their coats. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then, as John bent over to pick up another toy, Sherlock rubbed his back. When John attempted to straighten up, Sherlock kept his hand on his back, holding him down.

Sherlock chuckled, “I just keep wondering who you let spank you.”

“Deduce it, and don’t you dare try it.”

“Sara was a doctor,” Sherlock said with a smile in his voice, “ ‘first do no harm’ and all. Not her. Sholto?”

John gasped “No!” but was absolutely stunned by the clear burst of arousal that flowed from his chest to his groin when he visualized...

“Had to be the boring teacher.” Sherlock rubbed John’s back some more. “Were you a sassy student, or were you just late with your homework?”

“She was truly boring. I was trying to liven things up…” John thought of the boring teacher, all the women, none of them right, all the years searching until he found Mary, who was utterly amazing. Perhaps it was _Mary_ who transcended gender. Maybe he had been walking up the wrong corridor for years. It wasn’t the long hours studying in school that drove his dates away, nor the difficulties of the itinerant Army life, it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. Those things were real issues, yes, but John never tried to overcome the challenges. He never put forth the effort to save, to preserve, to maintain, never cared enough. He just let one pretty face after another fade away. An independent observer would think women were not his area.

John’s brain exploded and he needed to interrupt this line of thought. “Right,” he said, and grabbing Sherlock’s legs, he heaved Sherlock up, onto his back, then tossed him over onto the sofa.  “Boo-Boo I got you.”

Sherlock howled, as the rules required of those who got captured, and levitated off the sofa. There wasn’t much room to run. He caught John right off. “John, I’m faster than you and bigger than you.”

“But I’m stronger.”

The tussle was short and energetic and ended back in the living room. Sherlock was on top of John when John said, “I suspect Marcus’ mom cleans up very nicely.”

“Oh yes, her hair is normally perfect, her make up extensive and her clothes immaculate. As Marcus is almost as busy as Rosie, appearance must be a high priority for her, or I doubt she could keep it up. Her rumpled condition was a clue. The father is equally.” Sherlock stopped and looked more carefully at John. “What?”

“Are all the moms pretty like Marcus’ mom?”

Sherlock started to climb off of John. “No. Yes, I don’t know, I hadn’t paid much attention.”

He stayed on John, because John held him down. He continued, “Are you asking because you’re jealous, worried that I would, or. John, they are all married. Playdate will offer you no opportunities to meet available women.”

“I’m teasing you, you git.” John laughed, then quieted. Sherlock’s heart looked broken. “No, no, Sherlock, I wasn’t looking for opportunities. In truth, I think it’s been months and months since I noticed a woman that way.”

Sherlock looked relieved. Then thoughtful. Then his expression warmed up more. “John. You said, ‘Other mothers’ today. You said, ‘What do all the other mothers think of you.’”

“Yes, I did, I guess.”

“What did that slip indicate?”

John was unsure what to say. “Um, I don’t think of you as a woman.”

“But, do you think of me as Rosie’s, ah,” Sherlock looked very vulnerable then, and started moving off John again. “Never mind.”

John held him fast. “I get it now, Sherlock. Yes, I do, somehow, no, I definitely do, think of you as Rosie’s other parent, and, the way you love her, the way you nurture her, the way you understand her, anticipate her needs and moods, teach her, yes. You are mothering her. Quite remarkably. Quite well.”

Sherlock’s face was incandescent. He looked wonderful. Gorgeous. Sherlock was his, and he was Sherlock’s and Mary was with them, in lovely ways, inside their marvelous Rosie. John’s and Sherlock’s and Mary’s Rosie.  For the rest of his life, John wanted to be with Sherlock, his partner, in every way. Every way. Mary stuck, was his wife, because she was amazing beyond amazing.  Sherlock was his partner, his mate. His boyfriend. His love. Simply his love. And that was amazing.

“Sherlock, I think I am 100%.”

Sherlock blinked. Repeatedly. Sherlock climbed off him, stood up.

“You’re moving the wrong way.” John stood up, too.

“100% For kissing?” Sherlock held himself tightly, daring to hope, afraid to hope.

“For everything. Free and clear. All of it.”

Sherlock moaned, and moved in close to clasp John’s face between his long fingered hands. “Oh John, please.” Tipping his head, Sherlock kissed him.

And yes, turns out he was 100% for kissing. Turns out John was 100% for everything.


End file.
